


Neither Fish Nor Fowl

by facetofcathy



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: 100-1000 Words, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-06
Updated: 2009-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-02 04:12:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/facetofcathy/pseuds/facetofcathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PWP rumination on rules, roles, sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Neither Fish Nor Fowl

"I can take off my own clothing, Merlin. You see, I have this really terrible manservant—my father gifted me him, for reasons only he knows, and although I'm inclined to think it was merely for the laughs, he may have actually had a reason—where was I?"

"Attempting to remove your tunic without first taking off your belt, Sire."

"Well, you could lend a hand, Merlin, if that's not too much trouble. And I meant, what was I saying?"

"You were maligning my character, Sire."

"Oh, right, sorry? No, wait, was I really? I mean, a manservant isn't what you really are; not just because my father says so, is it?"

"Well, since he's the King, yes? And anyway, if I'm not, then why am I always polishing your armour?"

"Because you want to?"

"No—no, I really don't."

"Oh, I...I managed to get the tunic off, Merlin, see?"

"Yes, Sire. Now do you think you could achieve actual nudity soon?"

"In a hurry?"

"Somewhat anxious."

"How did you manage to get your kit off that fast anyway?"

"While your back was turned, Sire. Any progress on those boots?"

"Oh right, boots. Should likely take them off first."

"Aren't you supposed to be the one who _can_ handle his liquor?"

"I'm handling it just fine."

"Yes, Sire, I see that."

"There, Merlin—nudity achieved."

"You are an inspiration, Si–"

"Ah, you know the rule. Not while we're both in the bed."

"Arthur, then, since we're both in the bed."

 

_The kiss comes first, that's how it works. One kisses the other, a press of lips, and then slowly one gives way and one tastes of the other. The hands are next, touching, feeling, speaking skin to skin. The fingers inevitably travel the same paths, neck to chest to a sweep along a taut flank, cupping curves and teasing in creases. The bodies follow the practiced moves, tell the story the same way each time—this is how I love you, this way. The lover and the beloved one, they dance the prescribed steps._

 

He touched his lips to skin, hot and flushed. The fire was blazing away on the hearth again, too much, too high, too hot—the hallmark of a terrible manservant. He laughed, low in his throat and touched his lips again to the flushed curve of a shoulder, the sleek stretch of back. The muscles shifted and flexed under his lips, his hands. He slid his hands slowly around, and hair, sparse and soft, parted around his fingers. He searched lower, and his fingers wrapped greedily around the stiff prick jutting out from its nest of curls. He could lose himself in this, just this, touching and tasting and slowly coming apart. He reined himself tighter, allowing himself a last taste and touch before he pressed with his body, letting their combined weight tip them forward until he had a prone body under him, back to his chest, his teeth worrying at the hot skin at the nape.

He pulled himself upright, yearning after the heat of the body below him before they even separated. His hands reached to touch, to feel, to speak again with his skin. He slid his hands into the bedclothes instead, sliding under pillows and between layers of fine soft linen. His fingers brushed against slick glass, and he withdrew the bottle from its hiding place. He yanked out the tight cork, and the scent of the oil filled him. It was heady, the mingled scents of essential oils from the ends of the earth. It was precious, hideously expensive—the hallmark of a privileged prince. He let the aroma fill his nostrils, and the smell alone could undo him if he let it. He tipped the bottle and let the golden liquid pool in the natural hollow at the small of the back. He trailed his fingers through the slick puddle, drawing glittering lines on the skin of pink flushed cheeks.

He pressed the legs wide apart, indulging in the suppleness of youth. He trailed his fingers through the oil again, body-warm now, and pressed against the opening, insistent, demanding, requiring entrance. He was welcomed. His own skin was flushed as much as the flesh before him, anticipation making his heart pound. The desire was nearly as intoxicating, as addictive, as the having; so he teased himself as he teased open the body below him, slowly, carefully, waiting for the stillness to give way to demanding motion, waiting for the expectant silence to be filled with the softest sounds of pleasure.

He dragged his whole hand through the dregs of the golden liquid, letting it coat his skin. He slicked himself quickly, negligently, not wanting to settle for his own touch, while he hungered for the tight heat before him. He pressed himself in, slowly but fully, sinking himself in heat so fierce it made the room seem cold. Sweat bloomed on his own skin and he held himself still with the force of his mind alone. His body wanted motion; his mind commanded stillness. He waited again, waited for the welcome to be complete, waited for the body to rise up below him and demand to be filled. There was satisfaction in this, this imposition of will over desire. There was greater satisfaction in the letting go of will entirely and giving in to his own body. Hips thrust up and he met the motion with his own, snapping out and back in, laughing as he always did at the sounds they made—the two of them in concert, flesh slapping and mouths letting loose curses and groans into the hot night air. Their bodies heated and bloomed, and the aroma of their desire, their effort, their passion joined the scent of the oil and the smoke from the fire. Their speech became careless, and words full of meaning and full of nonsense mingled with the simpler sounds of lust and pleasure.

He clutched at skin, slick with sweat, leaving glistening trails of oil behind as he tried to wrestle the body up off the bed. They laughed together, at their clumsiness, their complete lack of finesse. They needed their combined strength to rise up together, back pressed tight to his chest. He could do little but hold them up together, slick fingers seeking the hard, hot length of the prick that had been pressed tight into the linen. Muscles flexed and hips rolled against him and a head lolled against his shoulder as he worked the flesh hard and fast. Their panting breaths mingled and their speech was gone, leaving them with animalistic grunts of pleasure as he jerked ruthlessly, demanding release. The prick in his hand pulsed and spurted, and the flesh encompassing him clenched around him demanding and ruthless in return. He tried to thrust up, and the hips rolled against him one more time and he cried out, gloriously desperate and unashamed, the harsh sound tearing through his chest before they fell together to lay panting and spent against the fine linens, grateful now for the overheated room that bathed their cooling bodies in soothing warmth.

This is how they love each other, this way.


End file.
